


Rehabilitation of a Public Menace

by ALittleGranny



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Enemies to Friends, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Recovery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-13 05:06:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9107812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALittleGranny/pseuds/ALittleGranny
Summary: Spite is an excellent motivator.Jamison Fawkes is told the bounty on his head is worth more than his life. He wants to prove them wrong.Hana Song is told she is too young to take on the same responsibilities as the other Overwatch agents. She wants to prove them wrong.Lena Oxton worries an international criminal and a teenager have no place in Overwatch. She wants to prove herself wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

After twenty minutes of staring at a dim, white, light embedded in the ceiling above, Jamison Fawkes realized he did not know where he was. Beyond the fact he was indoors. Turning his head on a stiff pillow beneath his neck (he did not own a pillow), he noted a thick pane of glass made up one of the four walls in the room. Hundreds of pencil thin holes created a stripe across the glass. He could not tell if the function of those holes were purely decorative or if they were his only source of oxygen. At the moment, he did not care. 

He breathed in the stale, sterile air twinged with the faint smell of soap and detergent. He did not own those either. No hint of gunpowder or sweat or smoke. Just clean. Jamison frowned. He did not recall taking a bath. Examining his clean, soot-less, hand, he figured someone had taken it upon themselves to clean him. 

Closing his eyes, he ran his hand over his face, inhaling the smell of soap as he attempted to think. His head throbbed. It burned on the left side with an unfamiliar heat while the right was ice cold in comparison. His hand traveled back to his hairline and stopped. “The ‘ell?” he croaked, moving his hand further back on his scalp and then to the sides. No hair. None. Just smooth skin. That explained the coldness. He huffed. Even if his hair was on fire more often than the average person, his still liked to have it. 

Moving his hand to the left side, he blindly examined the warm spot with his fingertips and had a good idea why his head was shaved. The skin was raised and hot to the touch. Stiff stitches drew a line from just above his ear to the top of his head. He grasped at a stitch with his fingertips, winced, and decided that it may be better to leave them alone. 

Clean and treated for injuries, he figured he may be in a hospital. It was not out of the realm of possibility. Yet he could not fathom who brought him there. Roadhog? No, not likely. That man’s idea of a hospital involved a self proclaimed doctor living in a shed that considered an axe a surgical instrument. A quick survey of the room told him that wherever he was, it at least appeared professional. 

Where was that bastard anyways? Junkrat sat up, half expecting to see Roadhog sitting at the end of the bed with magazine. Instead, Jamison faltered, his left arm tensing up to keep him from falling off of the low bed. He did not see Roadhog. Nor did he see either his prosthetic arm or leg. 

No arm, no leg, no hair, no Roadhog, and no clue where he was. “The fuckin’ ell,” he groaned and fell back on the firm pillow, feeling helpless. He slammed his fist against the mattress but it did little to ease his frustration. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose, letting the air out slowly over his lip. 

The last thing he remembered was him and Roadhog travelling to tiny, inconsequential, farm town miles away from any major city. Right. A place called Chesterton: a wheat growing community with a population of less than a hundred people. A tiny place that, Junkrat had heard from a reliable source, marked the location of an omnic hideout. In retrospect, he realized that source was not as credible as he thought. Not the first time that happened. 

Abandoned omnic hideouts from the wars were often rich in valuable scrap. Omnic cores, which could only be obtained by spending a large sum or money or killing an omnic. Junkrat did not mind doing the latter. However, the prospect of a mine full of free cores was too good to pass. Too good to be true, he begrudgingly realized.

It was a set up. The hideout was real, and it was untouched. As promised. But it was not abandoned. Jamison did not notice until red dart whizzed over his head and into Roadhog’s chest. Roadhog was on the ground, not moving, before Junkrat could even register what had happened. He acted on instinct and loaded his frag launcher and fired a few shots towards where the dart came from. 

It happened so fast after that. He unsure what was a dream and what was real. He remembered a woman dressed in orange, moving faster than he could turn. The old mine creaked. Rocks and debris started to fall around him. His fault, he realized. That was the problem with bombs in small, enclosed, potentially unstable places. A talking monkey with a laser gun created a dome like structure over Roadhog and a woman in blue. A bubble around the orange woman. Then utter blackness.

Jamison shook the memory his head and clenched his jaw. He was an idiot. Nothing other than his own stupidity brought him that stark white room without half his limbs. He turned his head and stared at the room beyond the glass wall. Lights, previously dimmed, illuminated the other room. A gray and white computer console was against the wall behind an examination table. 

He noticed another sound beside the ringing in his ears. Heels clacking against the linoleum floor, quick and steady. He lifted his head the side, trying to get an idea of what direction the footsteps were coming. 

A woman in a lab coat appeared behind the glass before he could figure it out. Right side. He blamed the head injury and tinnitus for not realizing that sooner. The woman wore her blonde hair tied back in a bun and a set of medical scrubs beneath the white lab coat. She offered him a cordial smile before jotting a note on the clipboard she carried. “You were out for quite a while,” she said. “I’m Dr. Ziegler and I’m glad to see you’ve awaken.” She turned and pulled an office chair up to the glass, taking a seat with a leg crossed over her knee. 

“Where am I?”

Dr. Ziegler set the clipboard in her lap and looked to him with a serene smile. “This is the Overwatch facility in Derbyshire, England,” she answered much more willingly than he expected. 

Jamison frowned. He hated England. He did not know if it was because the English tended to dislike Australians or vice versa. Either way he could not pinpoint a reason for his animosity. “The big guy ‘ere too?”

“Mr. Rutledge is at a facility in the United States. Leesburg, Virginia, to be exact,” she said. 

He furrowed his brow. “Who?”

“Your friend? The ‘big guy’?” she clarified with a raised brow.

“Oh.” Junkrat pursed his lips, considering the new piece of information.“A bit boring for big bastard like ‘im, don’t ya think?”

Dr. Ziegler chuckled and wrote another note. “Not for me to say,” she replied. She set the pen down atop of the clipboard and folded her hands in her lap. “We figured it would be best to keep you two separated for the time being. You caused our agents quite a bit of trouble.” 

“Trouble’s my middle name,” he quipped. 

“I’ll make a note of that,” she replied without picking up her pen. “Mr. Fawkes,” she continued. “As you were treated for a head injury, I wanted to make sure that your cognitive faculties are as expected. Considering you’re able to crack jokes at me, it seems we have little to worry about.” Dr. Ziegler clicked her pen closed and stood, rolling the chair back to the computer console. She turned to face him with her clipboard hugged to her chest with a sympathetic smile. “However, I insist upon doing a more thorough analysis after Winston discusses options with you. In the meantime, will you be needing anything?”

“Arm ‘n leg would be nice,” Junkrat replied. 

She nodded. “I will see what I can do about that,” she said. Odd. He figured the doctor would be responsible for his prosthetics. Judging by the look on her face, removing them was not her decision. “I’ll send for Winston.” With another nod of her head, she excused herself, closing a heavy door behind her. 

Wincing at the aches afflicting most of his body, Junkrat righted himself on the bed, letting his good leg dangle over the side. Unsurprised, he noted his clothes had been changed. His shorts had been swapped out for navy sweatpants and a loose, white, shirt hid his lanky frame. There was even a sock on his good foot. That was a sight as rare as the shirt. 

He stared at the glass pane ahead without looking at it. He touched the left side of his head again, tracing along the stitches. Perhaps, he thought, he got hit with a rock when that mine collapsed. A rock as sharp as a piece of broken glass. He wished he could see the injury. Though the glass wall showed his reflection, it was not a clear image. He took a deep breath, stretched his good leg, and watched the area where the doctor disappeared to. 

He did not have to wait long. A door clicked open. The sound of a few footsteps made an abrupt stop before he could see to whom they belonged. 

“Winston, please reconsider,” a woman with a British accent pleaded. “The man is a criminal; he almost got us killed.”

A deep sigh. “I know, but my mind is made up,” Winston said. 

“I can’t support this in any way,” the British woman said, her voice firm and unyielding.

“Then you don’t have to accompany me while I speak with him,” Winston stated, unmoved by her plea. 

“Yes, I do,” the woman replied, undeterred.“We could do more good with his bounty than with him. Let’s just turn him in and get one more baddie off the streets.”

“I disagree,” Winston said.

“Oy! Me too, mate!” Junkrat called in the general direction of the bickering. 

Winston cleared his throat. “Jamison Fawkes,” he greeted and hobbled towards the glass. An uneven gait, Jamison noted. The gorilla came into view, walking on his knuckles and clearly favoring his right leg. Jamison pursed his lips and hoped the limp was not his fault. The gorilla appeared to be on his side. Or, at least, against turning him over to international authorities. 

Jamison smiled and leaned forward, resting his elbow on his thigh. “Hooley dooly, ya bigger than on the telly,” he said. It had been years since he saw Winston in the news, but he remembered. He had to admit, a talking gorilla was difficult to forget.

Winston responded with a warm smile. “I get that a lot.” With two more steps, he paused and settled on the floor in front of the glass.  
The British woman followed without speaking a word, standing next to the great ape with her arms crossed over her chest. Tracer. She was in the news too. 

Winston adjusted his glasses on his face and introduced himself. When Tracer said nothing, Winston introduced her as Lena Oxton. “Jamison Fawkes,” Winston began. “Do you know why you’re here?” 

“Uh, ‘cause ya put me here?” Junkrat tried, raising his brows in jest. Before Winston could respond, Junkrat dismissed his prior statement with a flick or his wrist. “‘Aven’t the faintest,” he confessed. 

Winston nodded as though he expected the response. “I was told to brief since I have a tendency to ramble,” he said. “We-”

“He.” Tracer interjected. 

Winston frowned at her and shook his head. “I,” he started again, “would like yours and ‘Roadhog’s’ skillset for the reformed Overwatch.”

Jamison barked a laugh, slapping his knee with mock amusement. “Ya jokin’ mate?”

The ape shook his head. “I am serious,” he affirmed.

“Contrary to all sense and reason,” Traced muttered under her breath. She gave a sidelong glance towards Winston before returning her steely gaze to Junkrat. 

Winston ignored the comment and cleared his throat. “I hear about what happened with Hyde Global in Sydney. You tried to do some legitimate work. Work we, at Overwatch, could use.”

Junkrat raised a brow, “You heard about that shitshow and ya still-” he trailed off, unsure of how to word the question. Wanted to hire him? Thought he would be a fit for Overwatch? Trusted him? Maybe Junkrat was not that only one to get hit on the head in that omnic hideout. “You know what we did to that backstabber, right?”

Winston gave a solemn nod. “Yes, I do.” He shifted his weight and continued. “With that in mind, I would like to extend to you an invitation to work for Overwatch. What do you think?”

Never been that easy to get a job was his thought. His lips drew together in a tight line and tapped his index finger on the stiff mattress. “There’s a catch,” he stated, direct and to the point. 

Winston thought for a moment before nodding. “There are conditions you must satisfy for this to work, yes,” he said. “If you’re able to fulfill these conditions, you will have a job and Overwatch’s protection.”

Tracer rolled her eyes and her lips stretched into a thin smile as though she did not believe a word Winston said. Yet she remained silent, waiting for his response. Judging by the conversation she had with Winston earlier, there was a glimmer of hope for her to get her way. 

Jamison continued tapping his finger. “What do I ‘ave to do to ‘satisfy’ these conditions?”

Taking a deep breath, Winston straightened his posture. “You will have to undergo treatment for the effects of radiation. Whatever Dr. Ziegler decides is necessary,” he explained. “And you will be staying at this facility while we determine your physical and mental fitness and your commitment to this opportunity.”

Junkrat chewed on his lip, mulling over the deal and its implications. The offer was tempting, that was for certain. “And if I refuse?”

“Then we turn you in for the bounty,” Winston said. 

He frowned and the tapping of his finger slowly came to a stop. “Well, that’s a no-brainer. Seeing as I’m at your mercy,” he said. Junkrat tilted his head to the side and raised his brows. “What ‘appens with Roadhog if I agree?”

“He has already agreed to start treatment.”

A slow smile spread across his lips. “So we will be in this together?”

Winston shook his head. “You two will remain at separate facilities until evaluation is complete,” he said.

Jamison cursed and slumped against the wall behind him. He stared at the floor and bit the inside of his lip. So they were smart enough to keep him and Roadie apart. Most places that caught them were too dumb to do that. It was just a matter of time before they figured out a way to break out of wherever they were. Be it a prison, interrogation room, mental facility; they could break out together. Jamison glanced at his stub of an arm and leg. On his own, however, without his prosthetics or explosives, he did not stand a chance. 

Maybe, perhaps, he could make a go at escaping after they let their guard down. He looked to Tracer, who watched him like a cat stalking a mouse. She stood with her arms still crossed over her chest, her eyes focused and her lips pursed. She seemed to be his main cause for concern. 

The corners of his lips curled into an easy grin. “I’ll do it. On one condition,” he bargained, leaning forward again with his eyes locked on Tracer. 

“You’re in no position to be negotiating,” Tracer snipped. 

Winston shot her a silencing stare. When she closed her mouth, he turned back to Jamison with an amicable smile. “What’s your condition?”

Junkrat rested his chin on his good hand. “Like ya said, I got a bounty. A big one,” he said. “And if she wants’ta collect it, I say she ought to be makin’ sure nothin’ ‘appens ta me. After all, without Roadie, I don’t got me bodygaurd.”

Tracer gave a scoffing laugh. “Not going to happen,” she said, a self-assured grin spreading across her face. 

Winston turned his head to her with deliberate slowness. His gaze was even and expression unreadable. He was quiet as he considered the the offer and his comrade’s opposition. Adjusting his glasses, he regarded Tracer a second longer before returning his focus to Junkrat. “Mr. Fawkes, I believe we have a deal.”

Tracer’s smile faded until her jaw dropped. Mouth agape, she stammered, furrowed her brow, and clamped her mouth shut as she struggled to find words. Opening her mouth again, she started to say something, then closed it, opting to look like a fish gasping on land. She turned her body to Winston, hand poised as though she would use it to point an accusatory finger at him. Her teeth clicked when she shut her mouth and let her hand drop, saying nothing.

A gleeful, cackling, laugh bubbled in Junkrat’s chest at the reaction. Oh it was better than he could have hoped for. The absolute shock! She had it coming. If she wanted to turn him in so badly, so badly that she thought he did not even deserve a chance, then she would have to make sure there was still a Junkrat to turn in. Though, when he thought about it, he remembered the wanted posted said ‘Dead or Alive’. Didn’t matter. The agents of Overwatch tended to avoid the violent course of action when possible. Plus, with Winston around, he doubted Tracer could do anything more than glower at him. Junkrat smiled and pressed his tongue against the sharp tip of his golden tooth. “Somethin’ wrong, pommie?”

Tracer’s lips pressed together in a tight line, not willing to dignify his question with a response. Instead, her gaze narrowed at Winston. “This is a joke, right Winston?”

Winston shook his head as he placed his knuckles on the ground in front of him and pushed himself to his feet. “Nope,” he answered resolutely. He turned and offered Junkrat a friendly smile. “Dr.Ziegler will be back with your prosthetics in a moment. If you’ll excuse me, I need to see to your future accommodations.” He took a few steps away before adding over his shoulder. “Welcome to the team.”

Tracer stared dumbly into the cell for a moment, not even looking at Junkrat. She shook her head and followed Winston out of the room, arguing again the gorilla before they were even out of earshot. 

Junkrat smiled to himself, feeling as though he had won a small victory. Maybe things wouldn’t go tits up again. Despite its international downfall, Overwatch was not the worst place to be.

  


\---

  


The infirmary door shut behind Lena with more force than intended. Ignoring it, she zipped ahead of Winston to block his path in the hallway. “Come on, Winston! Why’re you doing this?”

Winston dragged his hand down his face. “You don’t really have to be his bodyguard,” he said. 

A rush of relief washed over her. “Oh thank God,” she breathed. 

“You are, however, responsible for making sure he’s being watched by someone capable,” he added. “Reinhardt is prepared to watch him in the evenings. Unless you can find someone else, you’re the fallback day watch.”

Lena sighed as though a weight lifted from her chest. She placed a hand on Winston’s shoulder, noting a mat in his fur and bags under his eyes. Poor guy. He worked so hard and was under so much pressure. There was a pang of guilt as she realized that she was doing nothing to alleviate his stress. Especially not by questioning him when other members of the team were uncertain about his authority. “Winston, I respect what you’re doing and I’m sorry for giving you a hard time.”

Winston gave her hand an affectionate pat. “Your concerns were not unwarranted,” he said. He removed her hand from his fur. “I still have a lot of work to do before Jamison is released,” he continued and took a few steps past Lena. “Maybe you can get one of the new recruits to take the job for the day,” he hinted with a smile. He turned his back and continued down the hall presumably heading back to the laboratory. 

Lena bit her lip. There were several new, albeit unofficial, Overwatch members. Some, such as Aleksandra Zayranova, Hana Song, and Satya Vaswani were ‘on loan’ as Winston liked to call it. They could work with Overwatch so long as their other affiliations had no urgent matters. Zarya and Satya had gone to the Virginia base with Ana and Roadhog. Lúcio was the only real new hire Overwatch could claim, but he was often busy performing concerts or helping out his hometown. Taking the train, he had left for a concert in London and Lena was unsure when he would be back.That left her with Hana or Angela, and Angela had enough on her plate.

A smile grew on Lena’s lips. Last she saw Hana, she was upside-down on the couch playing video games and complaining she was bored. It was her lucky day. With a spring to her step, she rushed off to the recreation room to find Hana Song. 

She was just as Tracer remembered. Hana Song hung upside-down on the couch with a video game controller in one hand and a half eaten apple in the other. She was playing some racing game. ‘Mindless and easy’, she called it. Lena disagreed. She played the game once with Hana and lost. Hana offered to play using her toes while she ate dinner, and Lena still lost even to the pre-programmed drivers. Video games were not her strong suit, it seemed. At least not the racing games.

Dull, deep brown, eyes looked away from the game’s loading screen and blinked at Tracer. “Hey,” she greeted with a slight smile, eyes brightening with recognition. She unhooked her legs from the back of the couch and righted herself. “Wanna play a round?” she asked while attempting to fix her disheveled hair with her fingertips.

Lena giggled at her unkempt hair and shook her head. “Not at the moment, love,” she said. 

“Don’t want to get your butt kicked?” Hana teased. “I could try playing blindfolded this time.”

Lena scoffed, amused. “That will just make it more embarrassing for me when you win,” she said and crossed the room. She perched herself on the arm of the couch and crossed her ankle over her knee. “I need a favor,” she began.

“I charge for lessons,” Hana said.

Shaking her head again, Lena continued. “Junkrat’s agreed to join the team and we need someone to watch him when I’m not around,” she said. She frowned and scratched the back of her neck. “I’ve got plans with Emily today and-” 

Hana held up her hand, signifying for her to stop. She gave a knowing smile. “Say no more. I got it.” When the loading screen finished, she paused her game. Setting the controller on the couch she got to her feet, stretching her arms over her head and turning to send a series of cracks and pops up her spine. “You have fun, yeah?”

Lena beamed and threw her arms around her, hugging her tight. “Thank you,” she said. “I owe you one. Big time!” With that, she released Hana and hopped to her feet. “I’ll go let Winston know the plan,” she said as her feet started towards the exit. “Thank you again!”

Hana waved her hand dismissively. “It’s no problem,” she said. 

Tracer bounded off, glad to have found someone to take that dreadful responsibility from her shoulders. Hana had fought countless omnic terrors in her time with MEKA. Surely she could handle a delusional Australian. 

At the very least, she could kick his butt at video games.

  



	2. Chapter 2

  


Chapter 2

  
Dr. Angela Ziegler was the best damn doctor Jamison had ever known for two reasons. The first being that she had been to medical school. That was a big plus. The second reason being she did not suggest removing any of his body parts. Also good. The pretty face did not hurt her likability either, even when her expression was simultaneously baffled and disappointed. 

Yellow sticky notes littered the previously pristine pad of paper forms on her clipboard. Each one pointed to or underlined a field with extra notes that would not fit on the printed lines. When she first retrieved the pad of sticky notes, she made a lighthearted comment about how most of her patients needed a little extra detail. Jamison counted seventeen notes before he stopped keeping track.

Angela flipped through the papers with her blue eyes narrowed and her brows drawn close. 

A paper sanitation sheet crumpled when Jamison kicked his feet at the end of the examination table. “What’s the news, doc?” 

Biting her lip, Angela let the pages fall flat on the clipboard. She offered a polite smile and hugged her notes to her chest. “You’ve given me quite a bit to look at, Jamison,” she said. “Frankly, I’m amazed you can still function.”

A cackling giggle bubbled from his chest. “Most would say I don’t. At least, not ‘ere.” Jamison rapped his knuckles on the the unharmed side of his head. 

“I haven’t even gotten there yet,” she replied with an insulting lack of hesitation. With a click of her pen she jotted another note. A note Jamison only assumed was a reminder to get him mentally evaluated. Angela tucked the clipboard under her arm. With a sigh, she brought a hand to her forehead under the guise of brushing away her bangs. “Are you willing to accept medical treatment?”

“Depends on what it is,” Jamison replied.

Angela shut her eyes for a moment and took a breath. “Well, there’s quite a few things,” she began. “You’ve never been vaccinated.”

“Nope.”

“You’ll need all of your vaccinations. Influenza, Tdap, MMR, Chickenpox, meningitis, and,” she trailed off with her brows furrowed. “Are you or have you ever been sexually active?”

“Uh, yes?”

“HPV vaccine too. Plus I may need you to come back for full STD testing, but we can cross that bridge when we get to it,” she continued. “You have ringworm, so I’ll provide an antifungal treatment for that. Lice was taken care of when we shaved your head. To prevent both of those in the future I suggest better hygiene.”

Jamison crossed his arms. “Not many places to get a bath in the outback these days,” he said. 

“Noted,” Angela said without skipping a beat. “Your prolonged exposure to radiation is likely affecting your hair growth, ability to maintain weight, and some of your mental faculties. I have medication I can give you but it can have some uncomfortable side effects. Fortunately, it should do it’s job within a few weeks provided you take it as instructed.” Angela pulled out her clipboard again and flipped through the papers. She tapped her pen against her lower lip as she read. “Neither of your prosthetics have proper sockets and, as a result, there is some additional damage to your residual limbs. I can replace those as well. You’ll need some dental work done from I can tell and I can recommend a specialist for that. Therapy and psychiatric treatment is not mandatory, but it would not hurt to see a specialist for that either. Let’s see,” she paused and turned to the last page of her notes. “You’re severely underweight for your height and you're malnourished,” she added. “In summary, the only treatments I insist on are the immunization and the ringworm treatment as ignoring them puts others at risk.”

Jamison leaned back on his hand. “Sounds great. When do I start?”

Angela blinked at him, taken aback by the nonchalant reply. “Now,” she said. “If you want.”

The immunizations were first. Those were the easy ones. Two in each arm and two on his right thigh. Each one like a quick pinch to his skin. Attempting to have some fun with the situation, Angela asked if he preferred plain or neon plasters to cover the needle pricks. Jamison picked the neon ones, knowing that he would likely remove them within the hour. 

The ringworm treatment required a bit more effort than just poking a needle into him. Up to a few weeks of effort. The ringworm was behind his right shoulder, often times covered by a ammunition harness or the rip-tire. Twice a day, for as long as necessary, an anti-fungal cream was to be applies. A loose fitting shirt was recommended to let air at the infected area and prevent further spread. Being required to wear a shirt was not the worst part. 

Angela handed him a transparent orange tube filled to the cap with oblong white tablets. For the radiation, she explained. “The side effects are uncomfortable but I insist you continue taking them until the bottle is finished.” Angela leaned against the counter behind her with crossed arms. Her bright blue eyes locked on his until he nodded in agreement. 

Jamison turned the orange bottle and read the label. ‘Take one tablet with food daily.’ That did not seem so bad. The side effects were not listed on the bottle. Angela only warned him of nausea. What was a bit of nausea for undoing years of radiation? More than a fair price. 

With an agreement to have another appointment the next day, Angela walked him out of the examination room. Yet what Jamison saw on the other side of the door stopped him in his tracks. 

A tiny woman, shorter than him by over a full foot, leaned against the wall of the waiting room. Long brown hair with straight cut bangs framed a face that looked at him like black market dealer appraised a copied work of art. Jamison knew that look. He had accidentally stolen a few copies back in the day. They still got sold, of course. Provided the buyer could not tell the difference. From what Jamison could tell, she was a smart buyer.

With a metal finger he pointed at the young woman. “She ain’t the Brit,” he stated and glanced to Angela.

“Lena’s out for the day,” Angela explained. “She asked Hana to fill in. She will be showing you around the facilities.”

Hana pushed off the wall and started toward him. There was a subtle bounce to her step that made his stomach turn for a reason he did not understand. She stuck out her hand to him. “Hana Song, aka, D.Va. It’s nice to meet you,” she introduced with a broad grin.

Before Jamison could accept the handshake, Angela gingerly lowered Hana’s hand. “You might not want to touch him without gloves,” she cautioned.

Hana stared at her own hand for a moment then waved at him before hiding her hands in her sweatshirt pocket. The grin turned sheepish as pink colored her cheeks. 

Jamison’s brow wrinkled. “I thought it was just me back that couldn’t touch nothin’,” he said.

“And you didn’t wash your hands after you put the medicine on your back,” Angela replied. She turned to D.Va with an apologetic smile. “Make sure you show him where he can wash up,” she said and excused herself to the laboratory to start on Jamison’s bloodwork. 

Hana rocked back on her heels and stared up at Jamison with those big brown eyes, sizing him up. “What’s your name again?” she asked.

Right. Hana introduced herself but he did not get the chance to reply. “Jamison Fawkes,” he said. Out of habit, he extended his hand to shake for a split second before he withdrew with an uncomfortable chuckle. “Right, not ‘sposed touch people.”

Hana giggled and met his eyes. “No worries,” she replied. “Let me show you around a bit.” Hana nodded towards the door with a grin. 

He took two steps then stopped and watched the room around him sway to stillness. Not good. Closing his eyes he brought his hand to his forehead and winced. 

“You okay?” Hana piqued. 

The concern made his lips twitch into a momentary smile “Fine, fine. Just woozy.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Might need to lie down.”  
He heard Hana hum. “Doctor’s right there. You need me to get her?” 

Jamison shook his head. “Just need rest, mate. Got six shots and I don't know how much blood drawn,” he summarized. Thirteen vials of varying sizes for all the tests. He didn't keep count. “Might be effectin’ me more than I thought.”

Hana’s brows drew together and she attempted a reassuring smile. “I can show you your private pod. It’s not far,” she said. “We can do the tour another time.” 

“Thanks.” He took a breath to collect himself and followed Hana out the door. Too much had happened too fast. It took longer than he cared to admit for reality to set in. The tightness in his chest seemed to worsen by the minute as it worked its way down to tie knots in his stomach. After only three hours of being awake Jamison wanted to sleep. To sleep and maybe wake up in some shabby motel to Roadhog knocking down the door saying “Cops are here”. Then they would wreak havoc and destroy another lovely family-owned establishment. The usual stuff. 

Despite everything, Hana’s kindness seemed genuine. It was a small relief. After waking with his hair shaved, stitches in his head, and no prosthetics to an angry Brit and a talking gorilla telling him essentially ‘help or die’ then sending him off with a doctor to be poked and prodded, a little kindness was appreciated. Hana was the first one who thought to ask if he was okay. The answer was ‘no’. Yet the cheery girl guiding him from his side gave him some hope that answer would change. At that moment, he could only think about rest. 

  


\-----

  


Date night at a new pub typically made the highlight reel of Lena’s week. Loads of pubs littered the English countryside and, since relocating to Derbyshire, Lena made a goal to try a different pub each week with Emily. That night they decided to try a place called the Bull’s Head pub. To the surprise of no one, a taxidermy bulls head was mounted on the wall above a crackling fire place. The patrons were loud, joyous, and drunk. Ordering a third beer, Lena hoped to join them in the latter.

When the waiter walked away with Lena’s order, Emily folded her arms on the table with raised brows. “Don’t normally go for a third,” she commented with a hint of a frown pulling at her lips.

Lena pursed her lips. “Tonight’s special,” she said and attempted a convincing grin. “New person on the team. Always a reason for a bit of celebration.” Lena avoided eye contact with Emily. Instead she pretended to read the engraving on the empty beer mug.

Emily breathed a laugh. “Are you sure you don’t mean ‘inebriation’?” she joked. “I take it the Australian guy took the job.”

Lena groaned and rolled her eyes. “He’s no good, Em’,” she said. Running her hands through her hair she sighed and set her elbows on the hardwood table. “Winston wants to give him a chance and he just doesn't deserve one. He’s someone we ought to be turning in. Not a rescue,” she elaborated.

With a thoughtful hum, Emily held her almost empty pint glass to her lips without drinking. “It seems like Winston thought it all through,” she said and set her pint on the table. She brushed her red hair behind her ear and continued. “You know what a worry-wort Winston is. If he’s confident that what’s-his-name is a good addition to the team, maybe give it a chance.”

Folding her arms across her chest, Lena pouted and sat back in the booth. “He’s talented, I’ll give him that. But regardless he’s not all there in the head,” she said. Lena huffed and glanced away from the table to watch the other pub goers. Happy, innocent, people. Some there with families and children. People Overwatch promised to protect. After witnessing how Junkrat handled himself in combat, she doubted it was a promise he could uphold even if he wanted to. She turned back to Emily with a sad smile. “After what happened with Gabe and Jack and Amelie, I don’t think it’s a good idea to take a chance like this. We trusted them and they all turned against us.”

Emily conceded her point with a nod. “True,” she replied simply. “I’m sure Winston has someone keeping an eye on him.”

Lena scoffed with a laugh. “Yeah. Me,” she said. “Bloke said that if I wanted to turn him in so bad then I should be the one watching him,” she added. Taking a deep breath, she shook her head. “I think he was just trying to rile me up, you know?”

Emily’s brows knitted together and her mouth twitched as though she was hiding a frown. “Who’s watching him now then?”

“I got Hana to do it.”

The frown emerged. “You have a nineteen year old girl watching a mentally unstable international criminal.”

Lena’s eyes widened at the words. When it was phrased in such blunt terms, it sounded terrible. Stupid even. Not to mention, irresponsible. Lena set an elbow on the table and brought her forehead to rest on her hand. She exhaled. “Shit.”

A gentle hand brushed over her forearm. Emily offered an apologetic smile. “Let’s finish up here and we can check on the base, okay?” She gave Lena’s arm a reassuring squeeze before letting her hand drift over hers.

Lena turned her hand to lace her fingers with Emily’s. “Yeah, that sounds good,” she replied. The sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach demanded they left sooner. Lena swallowed and tried to ignore it. Panicking would not accomplish anything. For all she knew, everything was fine. Jamison was not allowed anywhere but his room and the medical wing unless Lena or Winston was present. Hana knew that. She was responsible.

  


\-----

  


The nap seemed to help, from what Hana could tell. When she stopped by his pod to bring him dinner, he was already awake and trying to make the pod fitting for a person with Junkrat for an alias. Blankets hung off the side of his bed and crumpled on the floor. The shirt he was wearing earlier dangled from the corner of a shelf above the entryway. His prosthetic leg was propped against the side of the bed, looking as though he took it off and then forgot about it. 

Wide eyed, Hana stared at him as he rested on his stomach atop the mess of blankets and sheets. Her eyes were immediately drawn to angry, red, circles that marred the back of his shoulder. Those did not look comfortable. Neither did the way he was resting on his metal arm while he read through dossier. Probably the same one she received when she first arrived at the facility. It contained general information on Overwatch and provided a list of resources and how to use them if needed. Hana only skimmed through the documents, as most of it did not apply to her since she was not an official member. Though she was not sure if Jamison was official either. 

Carefully balancing one of the plates on her forearm, she knocked on the arched entryway. Jamison started and whipped his head around. His muscles tensed to flee or fight. Eyes darted to his prosthetic leg on the floor then back to Hana before he seemed to realize that there was no real danger. 

Hana bit back a laugh. “Brought you dinner,” she said and held a plate of food out to him. 

Jamison’s brows furrowed and his body relaxed. Strange amber eyes looked at the food, then to her. “Uh.” He righted himself on the bed and set the papers aside. “Thanks mate,” he said and took the plate from her hands.

“Sorry for scaring you,” she said with an amused smirk. Though it was not intentional, a bit of pride swelled in her chest knowing that she momentarily startled a dangerous junker to practically jump out of his skin.

Jamison scoffed. “Scarin’ me? Didn’t scare me. Just caught me off guard,” he said.

The grin grew and she placed her free hand on her hip. “Uh huh, sure. Isn’t that just another way of saying I scared you?” she jested. 

He looked at the floor by his foot. “Guess it is,” he admitted with an impish cackle. Setting the plate on his knee he plucked the papers he had dropped from the floor. “Made me lose my place.” He glanced over a few pages then put them aside with a shake of his head, seeming to give up on the finding wherever he left off. 

“You’ll have plenty of time to find it later,” she assured. If he did not, then Winston would be certain that any gaps in knowledge provided by the papers were filled with an over informative lecture. Those lectures usually began with ‘Remember in those papers I gave you…’ and ended when she fell asleep. Hana shifted her weight from one foot to the other and looked at the plate of food in her hand. Reinhardt was kind enough to make dinner for everyone when he cooked. Usually some meat, seasoned vegetables, and a starch. Not the type of meals she was accustomed to, but she appreciated it. Some nights they would eat together as a team. However, Reinhardt had some private matter to discuss with Winston and Angela was so engrossed in her research she likely forgot about eating altogether. 

Hana swallowed and took a step into the pod. “Mind if I sit with you?” she asked. Eating dinner alone did not appeal to her. Despite what some of the others seemed to think about Jamison, he did not seem so bad. A little spacey and weird, but not bad. Poor guy could likely do with a friendly face given the day he had. Even without knowing all of the details, it did not seem like the past few hours were easy on him. 

His eyes widened. “Uh,” he stammered again and looked about. “Not at all. Gotta put me leg back on if you wanna go someplace else,” he said. 

Hana shook her head and settled herself on the floor by his bed. “Here is fine.” His right leg was missing from just above the knee. What remained of it was wrapped up in a bandage that seemed to serve a cosmetic purpose rather than a practical one. “Mind if I ask how that happened?” Hana gestured to the leg. 

Jamison shrugged. “Stepped on an omnic mine,” he answered. He pushed the food around on his plate with his fork before deciding to start on the vegetables. He took a bite of the potatoes and chewed, eyes looking straight ahead as though he were thinking. “Think I was seventeen,” he added. He looked at his arm, anticipating her next question. “This one’s my fault. Made the arm myself,” Jamison flexed his mechanical fingers to show off the rudimentary, yet functional, prosthetic. 

Relationships between the omnics and the people of Australia were tense at best. Australian land was given to the omnics at the end of the first crisis as a peace offering. Thousands of people were displaced. Even more were angry. Despite efforts of the Australian government to maintain peace, the animosity between the omnics and the Australian Liberation Front reached a boiling point. The ALF destroyed the omnium and with it, most of the the outback. Hundreds perished in the nuclear fallout. Those who survived were left forever changed. Hana figured it was a topic best left undiscussed.

Shoving a forkful of beef and potatoes into her mouth, she chewed as she thought of a way to reply. “I was noticing the arm earlier,” she started. “Doesn’t look like the other ones I’ve seen.”

Jamison rotated the metal wrist. “That’s ‘cause I made it,” he repeated. “Weren’t many other options. Not ones I liked anyway. Took forever to get it working right.”

“It’s nice,” she complimented. 

His brows raised and he stared at her as if she had said something he had never heard before. Perhaps he hadn’t. He cleared his throat and averted his gaze. “I think doc wants me to get a new one,” he said. 

Hana breathed a laugh. “Angela’s like that. She just wants to make sure everyone’s at peak performance,” she said. 

“Might take ‘er up on the leg though,” he added, implying that he had no intention of replacing the arm. With his chin he gestured toward the leg leaned against his be. “Thing’s a piece of junk.”

“You don’t like looking like a peg-legged pirate?” she teased. 

“Would you?” he countered with a tone that sounded more amused than defensive.

She shrugged with a light giggle. “Fair enough,” she replied. 

They talked and ate together for almost half of an hour. It was surreal, but nice. Strange that she could have an almost normal conversion with an almost complete stranger. When they finished their meals, Hana waited for him to reattach his prosthetic leg and put on a shirt. Together they walked to the kitchen making pleasant small talk. They had a few things in common, she discovered. Both of them came from places that were forever changed by the omnic crisis. Both of them were some of the youngest members of Overwatch. Both of them claimed to have held high scores in Donkey Kong. She insisted on challenging him when she learned he played any video games at all. Apparently he did not recognize her as the famed Starcraft streamer. Unfortunate for him.

However, she was kind enough to challenge him to a game of Mario Kart. A simple, group friendly, racing game with bright characters and cheery atmosphere. He almost beat her on the first round, losing the race by milliseconds. The near victory made him more determined and reckless in his pursuit to win. She beat him four more times before he switched to a different strategy. 

As soon as the lights turned green, giving the racers permission to start, he snatched the controller from her hands. 

“Hey!” Hana lunged over him, steadying herself on the arm of the couch as to not fall onto his lap. She reached for the controller in his outstretched arm in vain. “That’s cheating,” she said. 

“Nuh uh,” was his childish reply. “It’s not cheating. It’s sabotage.” With his controller on the floor, he used his peg leg to hold the gas and his freaky long toes to steer the kart. When her fingers brushed the stolen controller, he passed it to the other hand. He laughed as she tried to pin his arm to prevent him from pulling the same tick again. “Careful touching me mate, I'm diseased,” he said as though that reminder would deter her. It didn't. 

“Only disease you have is being a sore loser,” she quipped with a laugh. In her next attempt to get the controller, she accidently freed the hand she pinned prior. He simply tossed the controller into his other hand and thus out of her reach once more. 

Resigning herself to defeat, she folded her arms across her chest with a mock pout on her lips. It wasn't until Jamison had completed the first lap that the controller plopped onto her lap. At that point there was no hope in victory. He was too far ahead. She could, however, inconvenience him for the rest of the race by hitting his kart with items and pushing it off the map.

Jamison still managed to complete the race before her. Though not in first place thanks to a few well placed items and an not-so-friendly kart crash. Yet seemed satisfied with the tiny victory and leaned back against the couch, his fingers interlaced behind his head.

Hana pursed her lips. “Don’t look so smug. You only won because you cheated,” she stated and stuck out her tongue at him. She gave a smile afterwards just to show she was only playing with him. She could never be angry about losing in such a ridiculous fashion. It was the only way he stood a chance at beating her after all. Perhaps she should have let him win a round. 

“Yes I did,” he agreed with a laugh. “Still a victory, mate. I’m marking the date.” 

“What date would that be? The day you had to cheat to beat me?” she taunted. 

Jamison seemed unbothered by the comment. “Yep. Totally kicked your--” he stopped and closed his mouth. His eyes were no longer fixed on her but, behind her. 

Hana turned around to see Lena in the doorway, her arms crossed and an expression on her face that was anything but happy. 

“There’s the Brit,” Jamison exclaimed with a broad smile. 

Lena tapped her foot and her eyes locked with Hana’s. “He’s not supposed to be in here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Thank you everyone for the kudos and comments! Sorry this chapter took a while. 
> 
> I would like to say this: I have lost at Mario Kart to someone playing with their toes.


End file.
